


Nightmares

by Jackeline Harkness (Jackeline_Harkness)



Series: Survival [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Past Rape/Non-con, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6925453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackeline_Harkness/pseuds/Jackeline%20Harkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nightmares are not uncommon among a group of superheroes. </p><p>But sometimes, simple things trigger nightmares, and nightmares trigger memories that some people would have liked to believe were nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares

**Nightmares.**

 

Brock woke up in a mess he had a hard time making sense of. His throat was so dry that he’d been choking on nothing, coughing at the same time that his throat made a valiant effort to let out a cry; his body was shaking violently, and he was all drenched in cold sweat.

“Brock!” it took him a stupidly long time to understand that he was struggling against James’ grip, who was holding him down with a worried expression on his face. He was saying something else, but Brock couldn’t hear him over the deafening sound of his blood rushing and his gasping breath… he could still hear his own cries, his own voice as it had sounded so many years ago.

It had all started, of course, with a fucking sign of trust.

After visiting every damn animal shelter in the city, Barton had finally returned to the tower in the company of two dogs: a thing that looked like a hairier Doberman, and a Border collie mix. The two dogs already watched the archer with adoring eyes, so there was no way Barton was getting rid of them… and yet, Stark had yet to throw a fit about dogs in his building.

“Where are you keeping them?” he’d asked.

Then, the members of the team that were there did that creepy thing where they all communicated, discussed and reached a consensus without ever saying a single word, and then Barton had grinned at him.

“At home. Kids should have dogs growing up.”

And then Romanoff had calmly reminded him that if he ever said a word about Clint having a family to anyone outside of that room, she’d castrate him, and take her time doing it, too, because that was her job as the honorary aunt of the Barton brats. The conversation had then turned to the plans Barton had for the following weeks, and when was Romanoff going to go visit, and so on.

“If something comes up, you should suit up,” Barton had said, not even looking at him as he scratched one of the dogs’ ears.

Brock had tensed up immediately, but Rogers had to make an addition of his own.

“It might be a good idea to have another good marksman with the team while Clint is gone.”

“Might also keep Buckaroo’s mind on the field and not back at the tower,” Stark agreed, with a smirk thrown James’ way and all.

“Have a good time with the family,” Brock had said before all but fleeing the floor, hoping Barton knew he was actually sincere, but not stopping to check.

“Hey, Rumlow,” Stark had started, even taking a couple of steps towards him, but being blocked by James.

“Leave him alone,” he heard James say right before the elevator doors closed behind him.

Later, after James had returned and they were fixing a small pile of sandwiches for dinner, he’d felt lips pressed against his jaw.

“It was an invitation, not an order. You don’t have to join any missions or anything if you don’t want to.”

“Thanks.”

They’d eaten in front of the TV, like they usually did, and the series had been so predictable after just an episode and a half, that James had lost all interest in it and had instead shifted in the couch just enough to blow him. A few minutes later, they’d stumbled into the bedroom, shedding clothes and shoes between the couch and the mattress.

The normalcy of the evening, the lovemaking, the familiar warm weight of James pressed next to him, should have been more than enough to dissipate all lingering dark thoughts from his head, but apparently they’d been left there, tumbling around in some deep corner of his mind. There was no other explanation for the freakishly realistic dream that had made James feel the need to wake him.

He mostly fell out of bed, and started to pull on his jeans and t-shirt. He knew James was saying something, but his words didn’t register. He turned around to look at him because he felt his eyes almost burning a hole on his back. When their eyes met, James’ blue eyes were full of deep concern.

Brock knew that any attempt at a smile would turn out all wrong, so he didn’t even try. He just shook his head.

“Just need to blow off some steam,” he said, and then left the apartment, telling Jarvis that he wanted to go to the gym. Even the AI suggested that maybe he could use the assistance of someone on the team, so he must have looked like shit.

Once in the gym, he got a new punching bag up and then proceeded to take out his… well, everything, on it.

He didn’t know how long he was there, letting out punch after punch, interspaced with the occasional kick, with his tumultuous memories refusing to go back down to the pit he’d pushed them into long years ago. When, finally, there were intentionally loud footsteps behind him, his body was still shaking uncontrollably, his breath was all wrong, his heart beat too fast and too loud, and there was a salty, metallic taste in his mouth. James approached him carefully, like one might do a spooked wild animal.

He wanted to throw another angry punch at the sand bag, but there were arms wrapping around him from behind, and James’ body pressed up against his felt so warm that he realized he was soaked in sweat and freaking cold.

“Brock.”

The former STRIKE captain closed his eyes, tight.

“Brock, what is it?” and Brock hated hearing him like hat, so unsure and lost, like he’d sounded back when he was trying to make sense of half-remembered things after they’d wiped his mind.

“Nothing. A bad dream.”

 “Normally bad dreams just make you cuddlier. You just shake it off and then go back to sleep. You don’t usually come down here to pulverize punching bags,” he tried for levity.

As Brock didn’t answer, James rested his chin on his shoulder, tightening his embrace.

“It’s burning you from the inside. You need to let it out,” he paused, and Brock wondered if he was remembering one or another piece of advice from Wilson. “Do you need me to torture you?”

Brock knew he’d do it, too, if he said that’s what he needed in order to talk to him, even if he’d suggested it as some kind of joke. That was the kind of understanding they had of each other. Maybe most people would just declare them both insane, but fuck, it worked for them.

He shook his head.

"No, I'm fine," which was a stupid thing to say, because James had never fallen for his lies, and he was unlikely to start now.

"You're not, though. This isn't you remembering battles or fallen comrades. Believe me, I know how that is," James paused. "I love you. You know you can tell me things."

James tightened his embrace, and Brock leaned back on him.

"I was thirteen... I was stupid and I thought I knew how the world worked. I was hungry, too, and maybe that made me even more stupid than usual..." he started. And then, he couldn't stop. He told him everything.

He told him about the man in the nice suit and nicer car offering him a hundred bucks to suck him off if he’d be discrete. He’d readily agreed, because it was a lot more than the twenty he usually got for that, and he had yet to learn just how evil the world could be. He’d taken his clothes off when the guy prompted him to, and then wolfed down the offered food and gulped the scotch. He would never forget how it had burned his throat going down, bad enough to make his eyes tear up… but he’d been determined. He’d been drunk enough to comply at first, to say that he was ok with anything the man could dish up for the extra hundred he offered. Things had gotten rough, and then rougher, and he still remembered how discomfort had turned to nervousness had turned to fear as things only kept escalating.

By the time undeniable panic had settled in, all he could smell was a mix of smoke, cum, and blood, and no matter how wildly he fought, he couldn’t escape his restraints. He’d pleaded, and cried, and he honestly hadn’t cared about food or money anymore, but the man wasn’t letting him go. He’d thrown up, and the man had cursed and kicked him, and refused to give him anything to eat or drink afterwards.

He remembered his throat feeling so dry that it hurt, that it was hard to even breathe. He remembered pain making him black out. He remembered wishing he could just die to make it all stop.

“He thought I was dead. That’s the only reason he dumped me in some back alley… some three days after he first approached me,” Brock was saying, feeling the solid shape of the sandbag at his front and James’ protective arms around him, his chest pressed against his back.

“Did you get help?”

“I didn’t want help. He did give me the money, though. The son of a bitch must have thought it was funny,” Brock shrugged, and didn’t tell him how the sick bastard had stuffed four fifties in his slack, bloody mouth, or how he’d lain there in the filthy alley, feeling ready to die and pitying himself so bad that he cried; until the cold rain shook him out of it, sliding down his abused throat and most likely the only reason he hadn’t actually died back there. “Eventually I got up… and used some of the money to get medicine. I learned my lesson. I couldn’t stay there anymore, so I moved to a bigger city, and didn’t make the same stupid mistakes again,” he snorted. “I guess I just moved on to make bigger mistakes.”

James didn’t move, didn’t say anything about the stupid, fucking humiliating tears that refused to stop falling from his eyes. Brock loved him more for that.

“It all got fucked up in the end. But the idea was good, you know? We’d do some real nasty shit. Pay the ultimate price. But it’d be worth it if there was order. Those who followed the rules would be rewarded, those who didn’t would be punished. Just order, no more chaos…” _no more cruel sons of bitches getting away with hurting helpless children, no more sick bastards willing to turn a blind eye to it._

“It wasn’t…”

“The right way to do it, I know. It was good, though. It was pure. It just… got corrupted along the way.”

“I know. I went to war for the right reasons… ended up doing the wrong things…”

“It’s different. I can’t…”

“It isn’t, really. Maybe the world will never be the place we want it to be… that’s just humans. We’re all fucked up. But we can still keep trying… we can try until we die.”

Brock scoffed, wiping angrily at his face with his forearm.

“And then you say you’re not a hero.”

“I’m not. Steve is… he’s always been. I’m just…” he paused, took a deep breath. “What happened to that guy?”

“That was maybe when I truly gave myself up to Hydra. Someone tracked him down for me after I completed a couple of missions; then I took a leave and killed him. I thought I’d see the terror in his eyes when he realized who I was… but he never did. I reminded him, and it still didn’t mean a damn thing for him. I guess I wasn’t the only one. So I took my time with him. Three days.”

James nodded, his mouth pressed against his shoulder.

“You were just a kid,” James said, as if it was a perfectly valid justification.

“I enjoyed it.”

“Of course you did. You were still just a kid, and you were hurt.”

Brock turned his head, trying to catch James’ eyes despite how close they were standing.

“You’re not anymore, though. You survived it all…” he stepped away and rested his hands on his shoulders, turning him around just enough to take an appraising look at him, “and I think you didn’t turn out that bad, all things considered.”

“Your standards are all fucked up,” he tried, but James didn’t go with his feeble attempt at humor. Not yet. His beautiful blue eyes were still all worried and open when he cupped his neck and his jaw with his hands.

“You’re still hurt, though…” A metallic thumb caressed his cheek with such tenderness that it should be absurd. “It’s still better, now. And I think it’ll be ok, even if it takes time. You’re not a helpless kid anymore...” he grinned, a dangerous gleam in his eye, “and you have the greatest assassin in the world looking after you. That might just make you the safest person on Earth.”

 _Fuck it_ , Brock decided, and leaned forward to melt against James.

“I’d love to run into action with you, again. When you feel ready for it. I know we work great together,” he paused, pleased when Brock didn’t tense up again. “And the team could really use someone with your fighting skills and field experience.”

“Still not exactly the kind of guy you should have in your team of heroes. Not after all I’ve done,” he said, and that was the heart of the matter.

“The same could be said about Banner… and Natasha. And Clint. And Tony. And me,” he snorted. “Most of the team, really. You wouldn’t even be the worst.”

“Your opinion might be biased there.”

“Most likely it is,” he shrugged, the movement bringing a familiar whirring of servos. “I love you, kid.”

Brock moved with him in perfect coordination, and just an instant later, they were kissing. A lot more tender than Brock was usually comfortable with when they were in one of the common areas, but it didn’t matter at the moment.

“Let’s go.”

“I don’t think I can sleep.”

“We’ll watch a movie, then.”

Back at their apartment, they curled up on the couch and put on another action movie. Brock had never realized there were so many, but it looked like it’d take them forever to go through all of them. He sighed at the comforting feel of James’ fingers combing through his hair, and wondered if the rest of the movie would be as bad as the opening scene.

Five minutes later, he was fast asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So I continue to torture Brock because... because. Poor thing, he never should have caught my attention.
> 
> There are still a few stories in this 'verse that I want to write and explore. And, of course, prompts are always appreciated!   
> As are kudos!   
> Comments, however... no, they're not appreciated. They're worshipped and the thing that fuels my creative part!! So please, please, leave me a comment? *^*


End file.
